


fire from the tongues of liars

by am doing a breakthrough science (acceptnosubstitutes)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Cat Dick, M/M, Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Named WoL, are they enemies with benefits, are they frenemies, full on cat like miqo ok, hero musings, that's your warning ok, vague alluisons to azem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:01:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28876875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acceptnosubstitutes/pseuds/am%20doing%20a%20breakthrough%20science
Summary: "Swear this to me," he breathes, against the warrior's lips. Still sheathed deep within. "Swear to me youwillbe happy."S'idos presses against him, impossibly closer. Says it with his eyes. The cant of his hips. Drag of his nails down the ascian's chest.I will. I. Will.Emet-Selch hates himself for almost believing him. Again. Always without fail.
Relationships: Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Kudos: 29





	fire from the tongues of liars

**Author's Note:**

> hoi hoi lovelies ~ written off a prompt at https://discord.gg/ME4eAEt

The Crystarium. Late night, near early morning. S'idos Muth, vaunted Warrior of Darkness, lists against a wall of his Pendants suite, insomnia ever knocking. On the eve before they start the climb up Mount Gulg and confront Vauthry.

He needs sleep. The idea alone seems laughable. Especially so when a familiar soft woosh, crackle fissure behind him echoes footsteps and then hands on his arm, turning S'idos fully against the wall. 

Emet-Selch insinuates himself boldly within his space. Arched brow, curling smirk. Slotting knee between his legs, nudging rather insistently against his groin until the warrior's head lolls around and focuses on his adversary.

"One track mind, ascian," he mutters.

Doesn't stop S'idos from hooking a leg around Emet-Selch's waist, trusting the ascian to support the fullness of his weight. He does so in a grunt, catching him under the ass and shifting him up into his arms. S'idos' own he wraps around Emet-Selch's neck, digging fingers, sharp nails into his hair. Pulls his hair. Seeks out his mouth while the ascian stumbles for the bed, dumping them both into it.

Snapped fingers and they're both naked, S'idos shifting above Emet-Selch onto his knees, his enemy's fingers ghosting down his stomach. They skirt his burgeoning arousal, the warrior spreading his thighs for them to slither inside, slide glide easily. And gold eyes gleam. 

"Well now, my dear," Emet-Selch murmurs, crooking his fingers, listening for S'idos' stuttering breath, "already well on your way for me?"

S'idos laughs breathily, sinking further on those digits. Shifting, gyrates his hips, both absolutely relishing the tight heat, the visual sight of more of the ascian's arm disappearing under his body. Emet-Selch slips a third finger up and in, already, and the warrior shudders. 

"For all you know," S'idos gasps, "maybe I have a lover in every port. They do so adore heroes, you know."

And at this, Emet-Selch stalls, frowning at him. Pulls his fingers out rather abruptly, wiping them on the sheets. Grips him by the base of the tail, dragging out a startled, animalistic yowl-pleased rumble vocalization and the cord of it wrapping around his wrist. The ascian's other hand sinks into his hair, using both hand holds to reverse their position.

The miqo'te's tail uncoils, rumpled, lashing out against the bed. S'idos bares fangs in warning. Soothed in the acquiescence of a long neck leaned down, chin tilted back. Creamy, pale white giving way to tender trickle of red.

Emet-Selch bends the warrior's legs, spreading open his thighs for that pleasant burn. That stretch. His ass cheeks lifted and separated in preparation. But the ascian's eyes have gone intense. Insistent. 

"Name me one hero who was happy," he says, "one singular, titular poor bastard who marked the end of his tale a sorry state better than dead. You cannot."

Punctuates his fierceness burying himself to the hilt within the miqo'te's feverish body, bite suckles his way up his stomach. Marks his chest in bruises.

"Heroes, my dear, belong to the dead. Reside in dusty annals of history. The past. Long forgotten. Lost."

With each word he thrusts S'idos into the bed, rolls his body deep into the mattress. Eating up every gasped out, heated, panting breath.

"They will take _everything_ from you," Emet-Selch sighs into his skin, "your purpose, your very name. And in the end your life will seem a mercy. Why not give that too? They deserve it, you will believe."

He cradles him, caging S'idos in the blanket of his own body. Slowing imperceptibly but pushing deeper, heavy weight.

"But what of you, I ask? Your wants? Your needs, your desires? Dreams? Goals? Why do you cast aside all that you are so easily? So readily?"

The miqo'te stares up at him. Has been the entire time. Fists a handful of his fringe, forcing a leg around his hip and tumbles them.

Where he sits astride the ascian, mussed reddish-yellow hair fanning out against bronzed skin backlit by rising dawn. Alien, impenetrable catlike yellow eyes scrutinize Emet-Selch impassionately. It summons such a need in him. An old, familiar ache only half assuaged in the touch, stroke of flesh at once enough and never enough.

"You think you know me, Emet-Selch?"

S'idos begins their dance again, grinding his body mercilessly down on the ascian. Rides forward with all the grace of an acrobat pausing mid tumble above him, a curtain of red gold separating them from the world.

"You know nothing."

Rears back and begins anew.

"I know," S'idos tells him, "they never let you be famous and happy."

"How many do you think? How many would be heroes have we both watched throw themselves at primals. War. Suffering. At you. How pointless it all must seem to you ascians, no?"

Emet-Selch grasps his hips, steadying him down. As if he could hold him. Keep him this way. Rooting a free spirit whose home was never on the ground.

"Maybe it all is. What a, what a lark." 

Harder to talk now, hold focus. The right words in the proper order with release catching up, building electric quick. Pleasant buzz that warrants chase. Less words. Less talking.

But there's a point to be made here.

"I'll tell you a secret, ascian."

Hands scrambling for each other. Entwined. Clutching, grasping close. The warrior brings his enemy's knuckles to his lips and kisses the tip of each one. So delicately.

"Tell me."

"If there's a way to be both, I'll be the first."

S'idos says it with such confidence, lifted head and set jaw. Locks eyes with Emet-Selch, daring him to doubt his conviction.

"It's simply not fair," Emet-Selch, looking upon him, "not this. Not yet again."

And to avoid elaborating, rolls them once more. The final push that sends them both over the edge he snakes a hand between their bodies, curling around the miqo'te in ignorance of the barbs that rasp into his palm. Firm, gentled grasp. Crushes their mouths together.

Takes from S'idos a measure of light aether equal to the darkness he buries into the warrior's body. Pain for pleasure, edge to edge, burn to the buzz. The only balm he remembers how to give.

"Swear this to me," he breathes, against the warrior's lips. Still sheathed deep within. "Swear to me you _will_ be happy."

S'idos presses against him, impossibly closer. Says it with his eyes. The cant of his hips. Drag of his nails down the ascian's chest.

I will. I. Will.

Emet-Selch hates himself for almost believing him. Again. Always without fail.


End file.
